


bitten once and now you're twice as shy

by defcontwo



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-04
Updated: 2015-07-04
Packaged: 2018-04-07 15:42:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4268964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/defcontwo/pseuds/defcontwo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Closing the distance, with only a little bit of parental meddling along the way. Or: what if Kent <i>was</i> at Jack's graduation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	bitten once and now you're twice as shy

**Author's Note:**

> this was my submission for the Kent Stop Won't Stop Zine that the hella super rad Bo put together -- you should absolutely check it out [here!](http://kentvparson.tumblr.com/post/123171686587/kent-stop-wont-stop-a-kent-parson-fanzine-do)

Kent’s a couple of miles outside of Anaheim, letting the Aces team bus rock him into a hard-earned post-series-win sleep when he gets the message.

To: Kent  
From: Alicia

Hey, Kenny. Call me when you get the chance, sweetheart, I want to talk to you about something.

 

Kent’s phone burns a hole in his pocket for the rest of the ride to the airport, and then he ducks away to make the call as soon as everyone’s all checked in.

Alicia picks up on the second ring, and her tone is all smiles and cheer when she does. “Hey, congratulations on the win, kiddo.”

“I, uh -- ” Kent starts, and then sputters a little. It’s not that they don’t talk anymore. It’s just that usually when they do, it’s either the occasional good luck text or it’s all safely kept within the buffer zone of post-season awards dinners, because there’ll never be a time when the Zimmermanns _aren’t_ expected to show up to that shit. “Thanks, Mrs. Z. What’s up?”

“Well, I know that you’re busy right now, what with it being playoffs and all, but you’ve just finished a series, so you should have a few days, right?”

“Uh, yeah. I mean, I’ll have like, two days at the most, but -- ”

“Jack’s graduation is this weekend,” Alicia says, getting straight to the point. “We reserved space for three, just in case. If you think you can swing it.”

Kent leans his head back against the wall, and lets out a sigh. It’s not that he didn’t know that, not exactly. He and Jack, they’ve been talking a little more lately. Hell, they’ve been talking a lot, if you want to compare the past few months to the past few years, where they didn’t talk at all. So yeah, Jack’s dropped that particular G-bomb a couple of times but not once has he followed up on it, not once has he said the words, “you should come,” or “I want you to be there.”

After a while, Kent just stopped expecting him to ask. They’re only just working their way back up to being -- to being something, anyways, friends, maybe. Graduation day? Shit, there’s no way that that’s not going to be a little too much. It’s okay if it’s too much. He’s getting that, slowly.

“I don’t know if that’s such a good idea,” Kent says, finally.

“Well, that’s funny,” Alicia says. “Because I just got off the phone with my son and he might’ve let it slip that he wishes you could be there.”

“Funny,” Kent scoffs. “Because he didn’t tell _me_ that.” Kent winces immediately; that all came out sounding churlish and dumb, and he feels like a teenager again, getting pissy and hurt whenever Jack would shut him out. “Sorry, Mrs. Z.”

“I’m not trying to meddle,” Alicia says, and Kent laughs, because if that’s not the biggest lie he’s heard all month, he doesn’t know what is. “Okay, I am _trying_ to meddle,” Alicia amends. “But you know I wouldn’t be calling if I didn’t really think that he wanted you there.”

It’s true, Kent knows it’s true. Alicia Zimmermann has spent five or so years as the unfortunate middle man between him and Jack, and she always took Jack’s side, every single time, because of course she did, he’s her son, and Kent would expect no less. Even if her eyes were sad as she did it, and there was an apology on the tip of her tongue every time.

“I can swing one day,” Kent relents. “But it’ll be cutting it a little close -- can you send me the info?”

“I’ve got you covered, kiddo,” Alicia says, and Kent knows he’s not imagining the smugness in her voice. “I’ll see you soon.”

~

Kent rents an Audi at Logan because he doesn’t exactly want to draw attention to himself this weekend, not really, because that’s not the point of all this, but he still can’t quite help himself: this is a damn nice car.

He drives the whole way to Samwell with all the windows down and _Born to Run_ blaring from the speakers, and when he pulls up to the Samwell Hockey Haus, Jack is waiting for him, wearing a flannel shirt rolled up to the elbows and a shaky, pleased smile that sends a thrill of relief running up and down Kent’s spine.

“What, you trying to keep a low profile or something?” Jack calls out, jerking his chin towards the car.

“Yeah, well, you know,” Kent says, slamming the car door shut and locking it behind him. “Some asshole I know is graduating college this weekend, so I thought I’d keep it on the down low, try not to cramp his style.”

Jack rolls his eyes, but for once, there’s nothing fraught about it, no tightness in his smile. He looks relaxed and happy in a way that Kent’s not used to seeing off the ice, and he has to stop in his tracks at the sight of it, suddenly light-headed.

“Come inside, jerk, we’ve got a lot of pie that needs eating.”

~

Everyone has that one mental image that they like to hold onto; the well-worn ideal, the fucking crazy lunatic “maybe someday” that rolls around your brain, that you know you’re going to pin all your hopes and dreams on making real, even if it’s just a little bit nuts.

Once, for him, it was the Stanley Cup.

Except, been there, done that, got the fucking Championship ring to prove it.

And soon, if everything goes right, he could have a second Championship ring in a matter of weeks – two Stanley Cup wins before his twenty-fifth birthday, so many pounds of blood and sweat and metal that’s proof positive that Kent V. Parson can finally tell the whole fucking world to go to hell, thanks.

But here’s the other one, and this one, this dream, it snuck up on him.

It was made real in a way that he didn’t really expect: Jack Zimmermann, smiling that lopsided, embarrassed grin of his, in a graduation cap and gown, honors cords looped around his neck like the great big nerd that he is, eyes as clear as day.

Looking at Jack now, it’s hard to believe that there was ever a time when he was chasing pills with vodka. It’s hard to believe that there was ever a time when Kent would wake in the night, in a cold sweat, so sure that he was going to check his phone and find that rehab hadn’t worked, after all, that Zimms had gone and fucking died on him. 

They’ve got a couple dozen layers of hurt and anger and blame and simmering resentment that’s built up over the years, creating a nastiness that’s gone and clawed its way out of Kent’s throat, turning itself into shitty things that he can’t take back, that he’s not even sure that he’s really all that sorry he said in the first place.

(He is, though. Sorry for it. Most days, at least).

The last time the two of them were standing right here, in Jack’s bedroom in the Samwell Hockey Haus, the sliver of an inch between them might as well have been a fucking mile.

There’s a lot of ugly that lies between them. A lot of it’s his fault; a lot of it’s Jack’s, too.

Maybe it’s the sun shining bright and clear through Jack’s window, or maybe it’s the couple of months worth of breathing distance and the apologies that they placed so cautiously into phones and Skype sessions, but today, that distance doesn’t seem quite so vast.

Kent clears his throat. “You look good, Zimms.”

“Hey, now. I thought we said no more of that, eh?” Jack says, smiling that little sheepish smile that makes Kent’s stomach twist in all the worst ways.

Kent huffs, rolling his eyes. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he says, although Jack does look good like this, cutting a sharp figure in the dark of his graduation gown, for all that that garbage bag of flammable material shouldn’t look good on anyone. Typical Zimms; he’s never known just how stupid hot he is.

Kent reaches out a hand, straightening Jack’s tie and smoothing it down.

“I know you didn’t,” Jack says, catching hold of Kent’s hand and reeling him in, dragging him into a hug that Kent’s embarrassed to admit he’s been aching for since he got here, tucking his face into the crook of Jack’s neck, breathing in that familiar scent of soap and sweat and Jack that he’d know anywhere.

They stay like that a little longer than they should, probably, breaking away only when there’s a shout from downstairs, something about Lardo and a keg stand for later, that shocks them out of the moment.

“C’mon, nerd,” Kent says, nudging Jack in the hip as they scuffle on their way out the door. “Let’s get you graduated.”

~

The hot summer sun beats down on the back of their necks, and Kent shifts uncomfortably, tugging at the collar of his shirt. The suit was a real mistake. He can’t imagine how much Jack must be baking in that fucking flammable graduation gown.

The announcer calls Jack’s name and he walks across the stage to the podium, smile splitting his face in half as raucous cheers break out from somewhere behind them all, where the current students are seated.

Kent takes a deep breath, in and out, and finds himself smiling too, in spite of himself.

Alicia nudges him in the side and then wraps an arm around his shoulders. “Glad you came?”

Kent hesitates, just for a moment, and then leans into her. “Yeah. Yeah, I am.”


End file.
